Shot Reborn
by wolfern
Summary: Years ago you read the oneshot. This is the continuation as Alex sets off around the world to find who shot him. And why.
1. Prologue - COWS

Shot

AN: I did this for fun. It will probably be not that great, because I was trying to cram in all my first-aid knowledge (i.e., nothing much). Anyway, enjoy!

Edit 2014: This chapter has been cleaned up a lot. Even so, don't base the quality of my writing on this one chapter, please. It was written years ago, and I have (hopefully) improved since then.

**Disclaimer: I wish I owned this, but I don't. I owe this to my old teachers for the knowledge and all the other stuff belongs to other people.**

* * *

**Prologue**

Alex didn't see it happen.

He was on his way to the football field where he'd been practising for almost half the year now. It had taken a while and a lot of persistent nagging, but Alex had finally convinced the coach that – despite his recent absences – he could be relied on to turn up. Alex felt a surge of pride that he hadn't missed a training session yet. His skill had spoken louder than the rumours, so for the first game of the club football season, he'd been promoted to co-captain.

As Alex headed towards the park, football bag on his back, something slammed into his stomach, knocking him to the ground. At first, he was sure he'd been punched and quickly looked about for his attacker. To his surprise, however, no one was there – and when he looked down, he saw blood dribbling out of a small, neat hole near his belly button in time to his heartbeat thundering drum-like in his ears.

Dully, he began to register a throbbing, burning pain as the hollow thudding of his heart increased, blithely rushing towards its end. Black spots danced across the sky like oddly shaped birds, and while he smiled at the sight, he faintly registered the sound of a voice asking for his name.

"Alex," he declared, and passed out.

xxx

Katy was first on the scene. Coming home from work, she'd noticed a boy dressed in football gear fall to the ground as if pushed backwards by an invisible assailant with a vendetta against football players. The boy's head twisted around, eyes futilely searching his surroundings for the invisible foe.

Automatically she rushed over immediately, noting the spreading pool of blood around him and his slowly paling skin. Taking a precautionary glance to check for danger to either herself or the boy, Katy followed the almost-forgotten instructions in first aid she had received.

"Can you hear me?"

No answer. She checked his mouth and throat. Nothing. At least he was still breathing, albeit faintly.

"Open your eyes!" she commanded.

Pale lids, veins showing through, fluttered. Dilated pupils focused vaguely over her shoulder.

She checked his body for major injuries; considering the way he had fallen, he could have hit is head on the ground. But he hadn't. Head, no. Neck, no. Shoulders, no.

"What is your name?" she asked, not expecting a reply. "Squeeze my hands!"

There! Above and to the left of his navel was a hole steadily oozing blood. What an odd injury, she observed. But, more importantly, how could she stop the blood?

"Don't panic," Katy hissed to herself, ripping the hem off the boy's already bloodstained shirt, efficiently bundling it up and pressing it to the wound. As she calmly told a bystander to call an ambulance and then to return immediately, a faint voice answered her.

"Alex…"

And with that, his faint breath and pulse stopped as he slipped into unconsciousness. Singing under her breath, Katy began CPR.

"You can tell by the way I use my walk…"

xxx

The sniper watched the panicked scene in a car nearby, having rid all evidence of his quiet presence in the building he'd occupied mere moments ago. It was a pity the lady had arrived, but it was simply too late to do anything about it. He contemplated the thick crowd surrounding his target. Now _there_ was a prime place for a bomb.

Briefly, the sniper wondered about the inevitable explosion his client would undoubtedly make when they eventually learned of his failure. He would probably have to dispose of them. After his pay, of course.


	2. Chappie 1 - In the Beginning

**Chappie One**

**AN: As you read, you may notice quite a few references to pop culture, or anything, really. This is deliberate, and I hereby disclaim that I own nothing that I reference. Also, I am announcing a competition: The person before February 13, 2016 to review with the highest number of references that I have made (e.g. **_**Staying Alive **_**by The Bee Gees, prologue, "You can tell by the way I use my walk") will win a one-shot from me, of their choice. The prize is limited to fandoms I know (if I can't write it, I'll ask you to choose something else) and the rules of FFNET (nothing explicit, please) :) I reserve the right to ask you to choose a different story.**

* * *

Alex woke to a steady beeping. Disoriented at first, he was shocked to find himself clothed in a dress, which was open at the back. Even more horrifying were the wires plugged into him and the stark whiteness of the room in which he was confined. It reminded him eerily of the Matrix, except that the Matrix didn't force its male prisoners to wear dresses. Unless the prisoners wanted to. Not that there was anything wrong with that. Anyway…

Mind still sluggish, he looked at the tubes poking out of his skin. He had to remove them, quickly. Who knew what poisonous substances were being pumped into his bloodstream? In one movement, the tubes were torn out. He started at the long, angry beep now resonating from a machine near the bed he sat upon. To stop the obnoxious noise, he pushed the machine away, where it stopped, sulkily, next to the door.

The noise was probably an alarm, and his captors were probably returning right now to sedate him again. He had to get out.

Stepping off his bed, the carpeted floor was rough and hard on his bare feet compared to the soft sheets of before. He shuffled slowly over to the window, still weak from the drugs his captors had given him. With a bit of effort, he opened it. Stupid of whoever had kidnapped him to leave him a way to escape.

Ignoring the winds buffeting at him from outside, he started to climb down, using a rainwater-pipe to steady himself.

Hopefully, the match hadn't started yet – he could still make it before the coach got too pissed off at him...

xxx

Nurse Wainscott was not having a good day. She'd woken at one o'clock in the morning to an alarm blaring at her, and upon going to its corresponding room, had found that her patient had escaped, after tearing off his heart-rate monitor.

What kind of a patient tears off their heart-rate monitor? Was he _trying_ to make her life more difficult? Patients these days, honestly. They needed so much patience.

Knowing that she had no other option, Wainscott had gone to the supervisor and informed the woman of the Escape. The woman had been very understanding, having had disoriented spies in her care before, but Nurse Wainscott worried that this understanding might not be present when she was faced with the agent's bosses.

After the explanation, she was ordered back up to the room, and to take a partner with her. Perhaps she was merely tired and had only imagined seeing an empty bed where there shouldn't be.

Unfortunately, this was not the case.

With her partner close behind, she rushed back down to the supervisor and informed her that, no, she wasn't hallucinating. Of course, the supervisor had to be completely sure – could she check again? After a few more months of this, Nurse Wainscott reckoned she would become quite fit.

When she came back, her supervisor was less understanding, as expected. With a quick order to someone else to call the Firm, the hospital was soon sent into a flurry of searching orderlies, nurses and interns, all watched over by the hawk-eyes of their supervisor.

They performed an initial search; then, failing to find him, began to comb the entire building in earnest. After multiple scourings, it soon became obvious that the boy wouldn't be found so easily. Damn these spies and their infernal escaping abilities.

However, he _was_ to be commended for his talents...

Nurse Wainscott felt sorry for the poor interns who had never experienced anything like this. Then again, _they _weren't the ones who were going to be in trouble. She snarled at a particularly awkward looking one, who looked very small and very frightened standing in a corner. He cringed in response, looking even more like a deer in headlights. Why couldn't he stop cowering and actually _help?_

On the other hand, maybe it was good that he wasn't helping. Ugh, she was so confused. It was all the spy's fault. Though he _had_ been drugged up...

She irritably brushed off another annoying intern who hovered around her like a mosquito, buzzing included. Well, it sounded like buzzing; she wasn't really listening.

As she swept by, she sent a glance towards the receptionist. The poor lady was very meekly informing the Head of MI6 about the problem. Then again...

xxx

Alex was ecstatic. After climbing for so long, it was wonderful to see the ground in reach. It wasn't very nice to wake in an unknown place, and he was still very annoyed about the dress he'd been dressed in. He was going to 'borrow' some much less revealing clothes when he got done down, law be damned! He _was_ the law! Or at least, he worked for the law. Same thing, right?

However, as he was reaching down to move a step closer to freedom, trousers (although the two were rather contradictory) and the football match he'd been working towards all year, he felt a twinge of pain. It started at his abdomen and quickly spread to his leg. Knives were cutting into his internal muscles and he shut his eyes as if to block it out.

It didn't work. The pain grew. He hoped it wouldn't become too unbearable; he was still a fair way above the ground, and it would hurt a lot if he fell.

Frowning, he rubbed his strangely-sore stomach, eyebrows drawing even closer together when he saw his hand come away with a red liquid. Why –? Was he leaking? Was he melting? What was happening to him?

He started to panic. What if he didn't make it down? What if his captors had poisoned him and this was the effect? He cursed the cruel people who had done this to him.

Then, like a pin dropping, he realised that couldn't be right because the wires he'd been so scared of before had been attached to a heart-rate monitor. Did that sign really say 'St Dominic's Hospital'? And… were those bandages around his waist?

His mouth fell open as he remembered. The sniper! Of course! It was so obvious now, and he cursed the morphine for slowing down his ... mental fastness stuff. He'd been shot and blacked out. This was obviously a hospital he'd been put in!

"Gah!"

With a frustrated sigh, Alex reached up with his arm and began the long climb back up.

xxx

By now, the hospital had slipped into the high panic mode that humans switch to when they realise they're about to crash and burn. It is in this state that some of the most inspired inventions have been created. Not today, however.

To Nurse Wainscott's slight amusement, coloured with commiseration, she observed yet another intern – who'd arrived only a week before – sobbing to the side. She understood how he felt, even if she would be happier if he cleaned himself up and actually did something useful. Poor duck.

She continued walking the path to her doom.

Arriving at the front desk, she was pointed to a man who seemed to almost fade when you tried to look at him. So this was what the head of MI6 looked like. When she concentrated on his face, she noted his lips, a strange pinky-purple drooping over a crooked jaw-line, his detached grey eyes, and his wrinkles, which completed his blank-faced old-man look.

Wiping the pity off her face, she strode briskly to him.

"Nurse Wainscott?" he droned. Of course he would know her name.

"Yes. I'm to show you the room where Agent Rider was last seen." At least her voice was steady.

"Very good."

She wondered how he could look so calm in front of the person he surely blamed for the disappearance of his agent. She shuddered to wonder what he would look like while signing the form sacking her from her job.

After some thought, she came to a conclusion: probably the same.

"Follow me, please."

xxx

Nurse Wainscott came to the door of the empty room and stepped aside to let the head of MI6 speak to the guard outside. She felt a slight feeling of vindication when she realised that the soldier would probably receive as much, if not more, blame than she would.

The poor man moved away to let the MI6 head enter through the white, somehow very irritating door.

It opened slowly, with the same sense of foreboding that precedes a death in a horror movie. The only thing missing was the high-pitched shriek of a violin.

The head of MI6 crossed the threshold slowly. Everything seemed to be in place. The bed was where it was meant to be. The TV was untouched, the bedside table undisturbed. The only thing out of place was the heart rate monitor, which stood off-kilter next to the door.

The man's awful wrinkled body in its depressingly bland suit stepped over to the window.

As he peered over the ledge, Wainscott's panicked thoughts ran wild.

_Oh no, now he's looking out the window. Hah, the wind's a pretty good spy, exposing your comb over like that. I wonder what would happen if I walked over there and push—Oh, he's turned around. Hi, Sir, I'd like to show some initiative and leave right now, if you don't mind._

Just as she was about to follow through on that last thought, the MI6 head froze.

He stared.

_What is he staring at? What's so interesting about the bed? Is there a strange stain? Oh, no, it's only the body. THE BODY? That wasn't there before. Now he's looking at me! What have _I _done? _

Slowly, with an air of disbelief, he looked up at the group, back down to the body, and back up to the group. He repeated this motion a few times.

_He looks like one of those nodding dogs that are on the dashboards of cars._

On the bed before them, one blond teenager slept peacefully with a smirk on his damned face. Out of the corner of his almost-closed eyes, a very tired and sheepish Alex saw Mr Blunt twitch.

xxx

When Alex awoke the next morning, Blunt was still beside his bed and wearing the same annoyed expression he'd carried the day before. Alex felt equally annoyed. The coach had specifically said upon Alex's promotion that Alex had better not disappoint him and get sick or anything. The man was going to kill him once he found out that Alex was in hospital.

Like a person next to a landmine, Alex sat up carefully. He didn't want any sudden movements forcing his boss' emotions over the edge and causing an explosion. But to his relief, Blunt simply looked at him.

"We need to talk," he said, "about this attack." He had obviously decided to ignore Alex's mysterious disappearance and miraculous return.

Still not completely sure of his safety, Alex tried not to snigger at the poor choice of words. "Respectfully, sir, what is there to say? I was shot, and now I'm here. When I'm allowed to, I'll leave and go home. You know, I missed the first match of the season."

Blunt sighed, seeming oddly emotional. Alex decided it was simply an affectation, meant to make him feel at ease. (He didn't.) "I'm afraid there is more to it than that. You see, Alex, what happened to you was no accident. We do not yet know who hired the sniper, but it is probable that they will try again. They are not like SCORPIA. We cannot negotiate with them. You cannot return just yet."

Alex would have said some very nasty words, if Blunt weren't there. It had taken a while, but he'd almost readjusted back into normality, and to have it snatched away so abruptly was, well, cruel. Not to mention blunt. In the privacy of his mind, Alex burst into delighted cackles at his genius.

"What am I supposed to do, then?" he asked. "I want these people to stop. And I'm not going to join MI6, either, so you can forget about making a deal like that."

The man opposite him remained seemingly unfazed. "Mrs Jones predicted you might feel this way. MI6 would be grateful should you choose to rejoin us. A compromise could be made, regarding working conditions and such."

Alex shook his head decisively. "I'm still a child, and I have stuff to do. Like finishing the football season. A bucket list, and all that. Maybe when I'm older, but not now."

Blunt sighed again. "In that case, we have decided that you may investigate these people on your own, as we do not have the necessary clout or resources to investigate a group apparently targeting just one person, and not one of our employees. However, considering all you have achieved in our employ so far, we are prepared to assist you. Indirectly."

Alex's eyes widened. That was generous of them, or were they bribing him into working for them later? He shrugged. Either way, better not to look the gift-horse in the mouth.

Blunt continued, oblivious. "Obviously, you will require time; we have provided the locations of our various safe houses for your use, as long as you need them. You are free to do as you will, as long as it is within the boundaries set by the law.

"I assume you would like to investigate your attackers away from Britain, because, no doubt, they will attack your school if you remain in it. Mr Smithers has asked me to inform you that he recommends Brazil. Apparently, the weather there is exquisite. Speaking of which, Mr Smithers is waiting outside. If you have no further questions, I will leave you to him."

Alex nodded his agreement, though it was clearly unnecessary as his ex-boss rose from his position and left the room without a word.

Before the door had time to shut properly, Smithers forced his large body and a black briefcase through the doorway.

"Alex, my boy! Sorry to hear about your accident."

The boy in question's mouth stretched into a genuine smile. "Only you would call a failed assassination attempt an 'accident'." Shaking his head, he greeted Smithers with a firm handshake.

When he had seated himself to his satisfaction, Smithers' expression grew serious. "Unfortunately, Alex, the fact that it _wasn't _an accident is why I'm here. You see, my boy, I have a feeling that whatever you do, you won't ever be completely safe."

From the black leather briefcase he'd been carrying, the large man conjured an armful of seemingly-harmless bits and bobs. Alex knew better, though; each and every one had hidden features that he could use on his quest.

Curious, he examined them from where he sat. A few caught his attention as Smithers explained their properties – sunglasses that were mirrored on the inside so that one wearing them would be able to see behind him; a knife concealed within a scientific calculator; the yo-yo from his first mission…

While Alex thanked Smithers profusely, the gadget-master gave the boy one last thing: a nondescript manila folder containing papers for a new identity, so that his assailants would be less able to track him. His job done, the man stood up and, wishing Alex good luck, left him alone once more.

* * *

**AN: So what do you think? I've sort-of worked out a plot, but I'd like your input. Where do you think the story is going? Can you think of any changes you'd like made?**

**P.S. Remember the competition I announced at the beginning of this chapter!**


	3. Chappie 2 - Pulling a Crawley

**Pulling a Crawley**

**To the considerate reviewer, Shamwow:  
I would have written back via a PM, but you weren't logged in (for reasons I can understand).  
Thank you so much for taking the time to read and review – and not just review, but to give some detailed constructive criticism. I'm glad you like the idea :) I realise my characters lack depth… and I hope you bear with me while I try an deepen their motivations more. The minor characters, I'm afraid, will probably continue to lack depth, but when I bring in more major characters they should be more well rounded. ****Thank you once again for being so kind, and feel free to write again if you feel I still am not meeting your expectations :)  
****- Wolfern**

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Back in his flat, having been discharged from the hospital after lunch – he was still rather bemused as to how un-forcible the staff had been when he'd asked to go; usually they refused to let him leave – Alex made the final round of the rooms, checking that everything was in order.

Bed was made, fridge and bins emptied and state secrets carefully hidden in various locations. Anal retentivity satisfied, Alex walked to his bedroom.

He revelled in the soft carpet under his feet, mournfully acknowledging that, wherever he ended up next, it probably wouldn't be as nice as this flat. The sooner he could finish this, the sooner he could return to his carpet. And the likelier it'd be that he could excuse his absence to his coach.

Reaching the open door to his room, Alex paused. Something didn't feel right. Something... something he'd felt before. Flashes of memories sprang to mind. Snowboarding down a mountain, walking out of the Royal and General, exiting the park...

Just as he identified the common element, a bullet smashed through the window, as if to give him a clue. Huffing in indignation, Alex threw himself to the floor, narrowly avoiding a second bullet. He reached out a careful arm and felt around for his closest packed and waiting bag, pulling it towards himself.

As bullets systematically destroyed his beautiful flat, he crawled along on his belly, using the techniques he'd been taught way back in the FFSAS*. With his bag strap wrapped around his foot, he made it to the front door of his flat and very cautiously reached up to open it.

No bullets greeted him. Always a good sign.

A bit quicker now, he crawled commando-style out into the corridor, then slid on his stomach down the stairs. His body protested at the sharp jolts, but Alex reckoned that any pain was better than getting shot. Anyway, he was sure it looked very cool from the snipers' perspective. Surely.

Reaching the second floor from the bottom, Alex was surprised by a door opening. He quickly hurled himself awkwardly down the stairs, landing in a crumpled – but protective – crouch behind a conveniently placed potted plant on the landing. It wasn't the best hiding spot, but at least all those days of Madame Thornquist, his old drama teacher, telling him to 'be the tree' were coming into use.

Alex snatched up his bag as a figure stepped out onto the landing.

The man from Number 4 looked vaguely familiar, but Alex was hardly ever 'home' these days, spending his newfound freedom out and about, and would be hard-pressed to describe any of his neighbours in any detail. Really, it wasn't entirely his fault they didn't know each other.

Besides, Alex could remember a few times when he entered the front door, seeing piles of mail in Number 4's mail box. So he wasn't the only one. The man on the landing seemed to be away a lot too. So of course Alex couldn't place him.

Squinting, the man on the landing stooped to pick up a book lying on the floor, somehow balancing a mug of steaming tea and a plate of toast in the other.

Just as the man was about to turn around and do some more waking up (Alex was sure even he didn't have bags that big under his eyes), he froze, staring at the slightly scruffy boy. Miraculously, he managed to catch his toast on his plate again as he flipped it into the air.

Cheeks infusing with blood, Alex waved and smiled genially as if blissfully unaware of the odd position he was in. _Be the tree,_ he repeated in his mind like a mantra. _Be the tree._

The tree noticed a distinct lack of bullets, and, deciding to throw off its leafy endeavours, continued creeping down the stairs, studiously ignoring the man staring in bemused wonder.

As Alex reached the bottom, he looked up to see the figure on the landing still staring at him.

"I'll be back," he intoned solemnly, and gave a slightly awkward salute from where he lay on the floor.

Thankfully, the man only nodded mutely and went back inside, taking a slow bite of his toast. Alex, now on his own, continued his meandering crawl to the first floor – alternatively known as the basement, though that sounded creepy so he didn't use that word. Anyway.

Eventually he made it to the doorway into the first floor and poked his head out warily. Satisfied that no crazy gunmen were lying in wait, he crawled over to his battered Ford Prefect, which he'd bought from a strange man who kept looking into the sky at random intervals, and opened the door, dragging his poor, abused body in. Turning the key, he pressed the clutch, moving into first gear.

With a sense of triumph against the odds and a casual hair-flick, he drove off towards the airport.

xxx

The man from Number 4 walked back into his flat, closed the door, and stood a moment, thinking.

His younger neighbour had always been a bit strange, leaving the flat at odd intervals that didn't match up with any school calendar he knew, returning bedraggled and blank-faced, enshrouded with an air of tired triumph.

But this—! This was the icing on the cake. Crouching behind a pot plant? What kind of a person did that? Not even his one of his colleagues, a man he had often wished to dissect just to look at his brain, could match that.

Or could he? The man from Number 4 really didn't want to know. Blinking to clear his head, he set his cup, plate and book on the floor.

He took a deep breath, turned around, and opened the door again in the hopes of confirming that everything was normal. Namely, that there were no boys squatting next to any form of flora.

Sure enough, the landing was free of any human presence.

He shook his head, blinked again, and closed the door. Still preoccupied with thoughts of his odd neighbour, he took a step. And stopped.

Hot tea soaked into his socks. _Drat_. For a few moments, he simply stood there, watching the liquid seep slowly into his sock, reaching up, up for the pale of his leg. Then it started to burn. It _hurt_.

Hopping to the kitchen, the man hurriedly cleaned up the mess. Now he was awake. Pouring another cup of tea for himself, he frowned, pondering. He took a sip. _Ouch_. Way too hot.

Blowing persistently, he wandered over to the phone. He slumped carefully into his couch and placed the too-hot tea on the table beside it to cool. Hesitating only a few seconds, he dialled a number and sat, frowning.

_Ring, ring._

_Ring, ring._

"Come on, pick up," he muttered, tracing a pattern in the armrest. The phone stubbornly refused.

_Ring, ring._

_Ring, ring._

The man from Number 4 took a slow breath to calm himself.

_Ring, ring._

_Ring, ri—_

"You rang?" His friend's voice rang out, deep and ominous. A pause. "You have reached the residence of the Ea—"

"Yes, yes, I know," the man from Number 4 snapped. He was having second thoughts. Would his story be believed? More importantly, would his eccentric colleague get any ideas to explore his more plant-like side after hearing his story?

"…There's no need to be _rude._" The man from Number 4 could hear the italics in his friend's affronted tone.

"You and I both know you're the rude one around here," he grumbled good-naturedly.

There was an even more indignant, "Well!" His friend clearly couldn't think of any response after his outburst and so remained in a long, sulky silence.

The man from Number 4 sighed. It was pointless to make this phone call without going through with his original intentions. "So, I called to tell you about this thing. The funniest thing just happened to me. I was—"

"You haven't been taking any more of those – _vegetable shakes_, have you? Don't lie to me, mate, I know you like the rack of my lamb."

"It's 'the back of my hand'," he corrected absentmindedly. "And if you hadn't interrupted me, you'd know I haven't… though they _are_ good for you. Now be quiet and listen."

Silence. The man took that as an agreement, of sorts.

"As I was saying before you so rudely interrupted…" He waited in anticipation, but was met with more silence, and so continued, "I was getting my mail this morning, you know, after my toast. Well, after my toast and tea. Chrysanthemum, if you were interested. Supposed to be quite good for the eyes and such. I've changed from Earl Grey because having it so much at tra—"

"Get on with it, _please_!" came the inevitable response.

Honestly, his friend only had to wait while he set the scene. These things were important. "I _am_ getting on with it," he said sternly. "Be a little patient. Did you see what I did th— oh, never mind. I was getting my mail when I saw my neighbour from Number 13 – young, blond, a little scruffy –crouching behind the pot plant."

"The plant on the landing outside your flat?"

"The one and the same," the man from Number 4 agreed. "He even waved. And saluted. It was a pretty good salute, too. The big man would have been proud. But it was weird, don't you think? Oh, wait, it's you. Sorry."

His friend growled amiably. "And you do the apology so well. Sometimes I wonder—"

"Where you've been? I do too," he grinned. "Anyway, I thought you and the boys could come over today, seeing as we're all off work for now. Right?"

"Well, actually," his friend had the nerve to sound smug. "I know for a fact that our esteemed boss will be out all day today… with his _girlfriend_… doing _you-know-what_…"

"…You are so childish."

His friend sighed happily down the phone. "I know. Besides, a minute ago I got a call from what's-their-faces. We're going back to work today, buddy. It's urgent, apparently. So much for the break, eh?"

"What about 'our esteemed boss'? He can't come in to work. Isn't he going to be out with his girlfriend?"

"Oh, that's exactly why he's going out today." The smirk in his friend's voice became apparent. "_Family matters._"

"…Oh, no, really?"

"Yes, really. It's just you and I, mate. Together, _forever_!"

He could practically see the hearts travelling through the phone line. "Er, well, that's great. Bye."

"No, wait! Please! Don't leave me! I love you, Sn—"

He hurriedly slammed the phone back down, cutting off his friend's anguished cries. Taking a sip of his now too-cold tea, he sighed. The man from Number 4 was in for a long day.

xxx

As Alex drove, he glanced sideways, wondering which of his bags he'd grabbed. With a growing sense of horror, he took a second glance, and then a third.

Not daring to face the truth, he opened the bag with his free hand.

Yes, he knew which bag he'd taken, and his heart plummeted in response.

It was the smallest one, his 'manbag', as it had been once dubbed by Tom. The one with all his 'essentials'. Fat lot of use they were to him now.

All he had were his fake identification papers including passport and visa, his mobile, toiletries, a first-aid kit, and gum from Smithers. Yes, gum. Of the expansive kind. Not a knife, not a computer-hacking gadget or surveillance items. Nope, he'd lost all of those. He had only enough gum to bust a lock. A small lock. A small, relatively weak lock.

He'd hoped he could escape his terrible luck, but obviously not. Probably never. At least the first-aid kit was useful; Smithers had stocked it, and it contained detailed instructions as well as medicines not normally found in first-aid kits. It even contained bug repellent and suncream, though how they were related to 'first-aid' he would never know.

In resignation, he sighed. Perhaps he should just give himself in.

Instead, he drove on.

xxx

Driving down King's Road, Alex thought back to his escape from his flat. For some reason, he couldn't get his neighbour's face out of his mind. The man was so familiar to him… It was more than the usual neighbourly recognition, and Alex didn't know why.

Ah, well. He could figure it out later. For now, Alex was uncomfortable. Shifting in his seat, he turned on the car's air-conditioning. Despite the day's chilliness, he was sweating. Something was wrong. The back of his neck prickled. Someone was watching him.

Alex checked the rear-view mirror. Nothing. Normal traffic – a taxi, three cars and a motorbike – nothing unusual. He shook his head decisively, and turned his eyes back to the road. He had nothing to worry about.

But he felt no better. Something was still wrong. He looked down to see his bone white knuckles clutching the steering wheel in a grip of death. Taking a breath, he loosened his hold and was entirely unsurprised to feel the wheel slide under his now clammy hands.

Something was definitely wrong. His body was subconsciously reacting to something important. Indicating quickly, he turned left onto Chelsea Manor Street. As he drove past the shops lining the road, his eyes automatically flicked over to the reflective windows and checked for suspicious signs. Nothing, so far. Taking another deep breath, he licked his suddenly dry lips.

Turning the steering wheel, he looped right around Oakley Gardens. Barely pausing to look, he swung right into a U-turn, cutting in front of a lorry. Its horn blared at him angrily as he accelerated in front of it.

Alex looked backwards out the mirror. The taxi he'd spotted before had followed him, and was now behind the lorry. Coincidence? Alex saw conspiracy. He had to lose the taxi somehow.

As he drove through an intersection, the motorbike from before – with its distinctive numberplate, A555 HOL – came out from his blind spot, driving along his left side. He let his foot rest a little heavier on the accelerator, and watched as the lorry turned away.

Speeding down Royal Hospital Road, he passed the National Army Museum, noting with some slight hysteria the cannons across the road. If only he could somehow shoot them–!

Switching to 6th gear, he glanced behind again. Yep, the taxi was still there. But – was that? – it was. The white car he'd noted before – a cabriolet, and Alex recognised the bald driver – was two cars in front of him.

Not watching where he was going, Alex veered dangerously right and hurriedly corrected. The boxy blue car on his right swerved to avoid Alex and drove onto the footpath, scattering pedestrians. Looking behind him, Alex saw the car hit the fence of the post office. There was a sickening scraping as the metal crumpled, the smell of burnt rubber filling the air. Guilt settled into his stomach like an old friend.

Alex continued on, not daring to stop. The lorry from before was behind him, but Alex decided it wasn't chasing him. It had turned away, right? It was probably making deliveries or something. Nothing to worry about.

At 60mph, Alex was way above the speed limit, but he accelerated further, trying to get ahead of the motorbike. To his surprise and dismay, the lorry also accelerated. Of course. It _had_ to be following him, too. He turned left sharply, almost running over the motorbike, but managed to miss it by inches.

Soon, he came to a roundabout. As quickly as he could without rolling the car, Alex turned into it, slowly accelerating, faster and faster with handbrake turns, until no other cars could enter without fear of hitting him or his pursuers. Horns honked, anxious to get through Sloane Square and past Alex, the cabriolet, taxi, motorbike and lorry. What was this, some kind of flash mob?

Concentrating fiercely, Alex passed the King's Road exit, then performed a screeching 180 degree turn to swing back and turn into it, narrowly missing a bus waiting at the stop on the side of the road. The cabriolet, going too fast, continued past the exit, but the lorry tried to follow him. Not quite managing to slow down enough, it skimmed the black fence separating the lanes of traffic, and continued into a shop.

Keeping his eyes on the road, Alex heard, rather than saw, the crash. Not even the thick 'sound-proof' glass of the Ford could quite block out the screams and the concluding _crunch_.

He kept driving, though, nervously checking his wing mirrors. The cabriolet was still in hot pursuit, as were the taxi and motorbike. Thinking quickly, he turned right onto Sloane Avenue again.

Tyres screeching, he turned left, made a sharp right and finally swung around to the highway heading in the opposite direction. The two cars followed him easily, but the motorbike, going a little too fast, was forced to stop and slowly turn around.

Alex smiled. A little bit here, a little bit there… Eventually he'd shake off his pursuers.

Not for a while, though, as the cars in front of him slowed. He looked ahead. A red traffic light stared stonily back at him. Guiltily, he turned onto the empty right hand lane, driving in the wrong direction. Predictably, his followers copied him.

Taking a very sharp left, Alex narrowly missed another lorry, forcing it onto the footpath. A sightseeing 'Tour of London' bus in the left hand lane erupted into cheers at his daring, passengers snapping away with their iPhones and cameras. Once particularly enthusiastic blond tourist on the lower level stuck his head out of the window, flashing his camera in the motorbike rider's face.

Alex held his breath, not daring to hope, but after a little wobble, the rider regained his balance. However, not fully watching where it was going, the motorbike then smashed into a green cab shelter in the middle of the road. The rider didn't look as though he would get up.

A little relieved, Alex continued down the A4. The taxi and cabriolet were still behind him, but seemed content with just following him for the time being.

He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking.

Flying past a Tesco, Alex veered into the right lane, in a vain attempt to shake of his tails, which followed without hesitation. He sped through the traffic lights, navigating around a Double Decker bus heading parallel to them. The taxi, not so lucky, was hit by the swerving bus. It came to a screeching stop at the edge of the footpath. The cabriolet drove around it and continued the chase.

Speeding over the Hammersmith Flyover, Alex ended up on the Great West Road. Absently, his gaze turned to the Furnivall Gardens, where Jack had once taken him. To his horror, the motorbike – he'd thought it was a goner – raced towards him through the Gardens. As he watched, it came closer and closer, until…

After attempting to jump, the bike caught on the fence, stopping instantly. The driver, not attached, flew over the handlebars, hitting the windscreen of the cabriolet and rolling into the back seat. The white car swerved, overcorrected, and turned into the brick wall of a building on the left.

Alex slumped, relieved and exhausted. Taking his foot off the accelerator slightly, he slowed back down to below the speed limit, the late afternoon sun glinting off the bonnet. Onwards to the airport.

xxx

"_BABY YOU'RE A FI-REWORK! COME ON LET YOUR CO-LOURS BURST!"_

The students surrounding Alex on the plane seemed almost manic in their elation. Really, it was almost midnight, by his reckoning, and they still hadn't gone through the entire song list in their various iPhones.

"_MAKE 'EM GO 'OH, OH, OH'! YOU'RE GONNA LEAVE 'EM ALL IN AWE, AWE, AWE!"_

He would have been all right if they hadn't decided that every single song had to be belted out for the rest of the plane to hear. It didn't help that they had absolutely no idea of pitch.

"WOOOO!" yelled the girl next to him when the song finished, and he resisted the urge to punch her.

"_I… know a place… where the grass is really greener,"_ sang Katy Perry, oblivious to the young British spy lurching closer and closer to madness. "_Warm, wet and wild…"_

"I LOVE THIS SONG!" screeched the girl sitting in front of Alex. Reaching around to tap Alex's neighbour, she exulted, "OH MY GAWD! TURN IT UP, SOPH!"

Alex sent mental death threats to 'Soph'. He was blissfully ignored.

"_YOU COULD TRAVEL THE WO-ORLD!"_

He could, but he wished these girls didn't have to travel it with him. Sighing, he defiantly pushed his own earphones into his ears in a vain attempt to block out the sound. Apparently, they were 'noise-cancelling'.

"_You'll be falling in love! Oh, whoa-oh-oh!"_

Well, at least the earphones made it a little quieter—

"_CA-LI-FOR-NIA GURLS, WE'RE UNFORGETTABLE!"_

…or not. He wanted his money back. Deep breaths. In and out. In and out.

"_DAI-SY DUKES, BIKINIS ON TOP!"_

This wasn't working. Time for some active protestation.

"_SUN-KISSED SKIN, SO—"_

"Excuse me, Sophie, was it?" he smiled winningly at the girl beside him.

She stared, open-mouthed. "WHAT?" And turned back to her friends.

"_WE'LL MELT YOUR PO—"_

"SOPHIE!" he shouted.

No response.

Well, it wasn't like he hadn't warned her. Before she could react, he had claimed her iPhone and lowered the volume drastically. He knew he wasn't imagining the collective sigh of relief from the other passengers.

Sophie was horrified. "What did you do that for?"

He smiled again, a little forced. "Er, I'm sorry, but it _was_ getting a little loud."

She stared some more. Slowly, she turned the music back to its original volume.

"…_don't mind sand in our stilettos,_" Katy continued, unaware of her short quietening.

Alex sighed. Perhaps the toilets would be quieter. Abruptly, he stood up and pushed past Sophie, who rolled her eyes at her friends as she drew up her legs to let him through.

Arriving at the toilets, he found that the music was little more than background noise. At last, some peace and quiet. Gleefully, he locked himself in a stall and sat down on the toilet after closing the lid.

Shutting his eyes, he imagined clouds. Soft, white, fluffy clouds. _Horizontal _clouds. Lying down on a nice, comfortable mattress.

Very slowly, he drifted off to the sweet sound of silence. Well, almost.

"_Californiaaa… California gu-urls…"_

* * *

***FFSAS: See the profile of control of chaos (formerly SamayouTamashi).**

**Also guys, feel free to start reviewing with references spotted. If you review while logged in or use a consistent review-name, I'll collate the references spotted by each person. You don't have to remember all the references and add them up and then give them in one huge review at the end :)**


	4. Competition :D

xxxx COMPETITION NOTICE xxx

I wasn't going to make a whole chapter for this, but (of course) not many of you seem to be reading the author's notes, and have missed the fact that I announced a competition. Either that, or you don't care...

ANYWAY:  
As you read, you may have noticed quite a few references to pop culture, or anything, really. This was deliberate.

I have created a competition:

Task: Review with references that I have made (e.g. _Staying Alive _by The Bee Gees, prologue, "You can tell by the way I use my walk") - the reviewer with the most references wins.

End Date: February 13, 2016

Prize: A one-shot from me, of your choice.

Note:  
The prize is limited to fandoms I know (if I can't write it, I'll ask you to choose something else) and the rules of FFNET (nothing explicit, please) :)  
I reserve the right to ask you to choose a different story.

Thank you for your time ^_^

- Wolfern


	5. Chappie 3 - Greenland

**Chappie Three**

**AN: I would like to announce that I am offering to beta for people :) Check out my beta profile.**

**Also, to all those putting this story on their alerts and not reviewing… some written appreciation would be very much appreciated by me :)  
****I know it's cliché, but I like to know what people think… and remember the competition ^_^**

* * *

Alex stepped off the airport bus, grimacing at the protestations of his joints, turned arthritic in the penetrating cold. He rubbed at his frozen ears, hoping to eke out some measure of warmth.

He'd only seen the safe house as a picture in the list of safe houses provided by MI6, and the real thing looked a great deal smaller than he'd imagined. The cheery blue stood out glaringly from the grey-white tundra of the surrounding environment, and the wooden flowers decorating the eaves made for an interesting contrast to the rock and ice.

Walking carefully so as not to slip, Alex approached the front door and opened it with purple, shaking fingers. God, Greenland was cold. And the smell of fish was terrible, at least where he was. Why did MI6 feel the need to have a safe house here, anyway? Why not in a capital city?

It was lucky they did, though. What villain in their right mind would think to look for Alex in Greenland's country? Hopefully, Alex could set up a plan of action here, then move off – somewhere warmer would be good – to implement it.

Stepping inside the delightfully insulated cabin, Alex closed the door quickly. First things first: find a heater.

After much frenzied searching, he found a console for the entire cabin, and set the temperature to a comfortable 24°C. Neatly tucked into a nook just below the console, Alex also found a stash of money and a charged laptop. Lucky; he would have been helpless without it. Once again, he cursed his hasty escape from his flat and wished he'd brought a more useful bag along.

Settling down to business, Alex booted it up. To his surprise, it flashed a message.

PASSWORD REQUIRED! Not case sensitive. ;)

"No!"

Why would they put a password on a computer where people needed to use it? How was he supposed to know what it was?

Honestly, he sometimes thought MI6 were too paranoid. What was the world coming to, he bemoaned mentally. Passwords in a lonely safehouse in Greenland? What next? Koala bears weren't bears?* Greenland wasn't… green?

He looked back down at the screen, still stubbornly flashing its message. At least there didn't seem to be a timer. There was still _some_ sense in the world.

Now. What could the password be?

Cautiously, he typed in 'MI6'. Would it really be that obvious?

ACCESS DENIED! TWO ATTEMPTS REMAINING!

A pause, then,

PASSWORD REQUIRED! Not case sensitive. ;)

No, it wasn't that obvious. Drat.

The password had to be something that an agent could figure out quickly. It was staring in his face and laughing, he was sure of it. Sighing, he looked around the room. Sadly, no laughing clowns greeted his visual foray. Instead, he saw merely the mundane: kitchen bench, fireplace, table, chairs… Yawn. Briefly, he wondered what a visual representation of a yawn would be. Backwards grawlixes?

Back to the task at hand. An ordinary room, containing an extraordinary… password. Somewhere. Oh, where is the password that fits with this? he bemoaned internally. Where is it? Where? Where?

Then it hit him. The idea was so clichéd that he almost laughed out loud.

Quickly, he stood up and placed the laptop on the floor. Working briskly, he felt about the fireplace, in and around the logs. There it was – a tiny hook in one of the bricks.

With a feeling of triumph, he pulled the brick out and turned it over.

MADE YOU LOOK.

Outraged, Alex threw the brick on the floor and delivered a roundhouse kick to the wall above the fireplace. To his surprise, not only did his foot go straight through the wall, but the brick split open on the floor to reveal a laminated piece of paper.

Deciding to deal with the hole in the wall later, he bent down to pick it up.

DIRTY CHOOK.

What did 'chook' mean? Some kind of slang for a chux? Well, it didn't really matter. Gleefully, he swaggered back to the laptop. Holding his breath, he tried 'dirty chook'.

Nothing happened. Then,

ACCESS DENIED! ONE ATTEMPTS REMAINING!

They didn't even have the decency to alter their program so that it had correct grammar. Alex growled and hit the keyboard – lightly. After all, he didn't want to destroy it and have no laptop, and have to pay for the damage.

What could they mean, 'dirty chook'? Was it all part of a joke? At his expense, because now he only had 'one attempts remaining'! Perhaps it was time to look in that glorious hole in the wall.

When he saw what it contained, he had to restrain the scream of anguish that threatened. For inside the hole was a reasonably large roasted chicken, slightly decomposed and covered in dust. So 'chook' was 'chicken'?

"Dirty chook," he swore, and reached in to get it out.

Inside the chicken was a small, grey box. Inside that was yet another piece of laminated paper, this time with the words:

ON WHAT DO THEY HANG SUCH A CHOOK?

What _did_ they hang it on? Some kind of cooking implement? Alex strode to the kitchen and began pulling out all the drawers, dumping their contents onto the floor. Working quickly, he also emptied all the cupboards. When all the kitchen implements lay in a pile in the middle of the kitchen, Alex sorted through them for all the possible chook-hanging tools. At last, he found it.

It was a long, curved, metal implement, and he wouldn't have recognised it as being a chook-hanging tool but for the laminated paper it skewered. With a feeling of great triumph, Alex read the message.

IT IS A PLACE OF DIRT, YET OF CLEANING TOO.

What was this person's obsession with dirt?

Anyhow, it had to be somewhere in the house. It couldn't be the kitchen as he had already searched quite thoroughly and he doubted that the previous occupant would hide later messages in the same room twice. The only other rooms were the living room, with the fireplace, and there had already been clues there; the bedroom; the bathroom; and the dining rom.

Alex thought for a minute. The bedroom, the bathroom, or the dining room? He decided to check all three, just to be safe.

The carpeted bedroom was empty bar the wardrobe, which he emptied, and a single bed, covered with a quilt. Alex dove into the search, emptying the pillow from its case, rummaging into its filling, taking the quilt cover off from the quilt… To his disappointment, even the mattress was filled only with fluffy white cotton filling. The message-writer had made him cover the floor in fluff for no reason, Alex huffed angrily.

He began to clear up the cotton and shove it back into the various place whence it had come. It was then that he noticed something. Some of the fluff was… sticking. It was as if the carpeted floor with the cotton was acting like Velcro – but it wasn't the entire floor, only in some places, in lines, even. Almost like letters, perhaps.

Could the previous occupant have recarpeted the entire floor? For a mere password?

Alex spread the cotton onto the floor and carefully scraped away the cotton in the areas it wasn't sticking. Surveying his handiwork from the door, a smile grew on his face. The previous occupant had probably been slightly crazy, for the Velcro-like floor did indeed spell a message:

A MUNDANE AND FUNCTIONAL ITEM, WHAT IS THE BASIS OF OUR ENTIRE CULTURE?

How extraordinarily profound. Unfortunately, Alex had no idea what it could possibly be, and so he had indeed covered the floor in fluff for no good reason. He went to look in the bathroom.

Upon his arrival, Alex surveyed the depressingly bare room before he went in. There was one toilet, one shower, one basin, and one roll of toilet paper. There was, however, not one window in sight.

First, he checked the roll of toilet paper. It was an ordinary roll, white and soft. Probably lab tested. It contained no message for him, even when he unrolled the entire thing to look. Oh well, at least the floor wasn't so cold on his feet with the toilet paper covering it.

The basin, too, was – or so it seemed – an ordinary basin. There was one hot and one cold tap, although the hot one took an abominably long while to become so. The water looked clean. The drain seemed to work. No laminated paper appeared when he unscrewed the taps, or when he plunged a hand into the slimy drain.

Alex was supremely thankful his manbag had soap.

Then he decided to check the toilet. Almost able to smell the sweet smell of success – or at least, he hoped that was what he was smelled – he lifted the top off the toilet cistern. Hm, water. Pipes. And… could it be? Yet another piece of laminated paper greeted his frozen grin. So, the basis of the previous agent's culture was toilets?

To his delight, he didn't even have to take it out to read it:

YOU REALLY TOOK YOUR TIME. PASSWORD IS 'BLUNT'. DUH.

Rolling his eyes, Alex replaced the lid of the cistern and almost ran back to the laptop.

Slowly, and very carefully, he typed in 'BLUNT'.

ACCESS GRANTED!

"YES!" screeched Alex.

Now he just had to find an internet connection.

xxx

Much later that day, Alex was trawling through criminal databases, searching for whoever was after him, using a list of suggested sites (and the corresponding list of passwords) that he'd found already on the laptop. For some reason, Club Penguin had been at the very top. Alex decided not to think about that too much. He would be much happier still believing the protectors of his country were above such – he flicked his hair – childish pursuits.

There was also a list detailing preferred accommodation sites in various countries, Greenland included. This particular safehouse wasn't mentioned. Alex sighed.

The first site he went to was a forum, which called itself The Baritones. There was no wondering where they got their criminal inspiration.

_Tony: u watch sopranos the other day? /icycold_

_JenMel69: yea. plannin on doin heist like dat sometime? woot woot eh_

After the first few threads, Alex very quickly closed the site.

The next one was more promising. Titled 'The Omega Sector', the conversations didn't seem to be quite as inane, although Alex marvelled that potential criminals typed so … well, so un-criminal-ly. Even childishly.

_icy: u guys wanna get 2gether friday?_

_fishhead: gonna do more on that kid eh? roflmao amirite?_

_icy: thinking about it… maybe u n yellowfang can help me out lololol_

He wondered who 'fishhead' and 'icy' were, and whether they were important. Looking at most conversations, 'icy' seemed to be pretty ubiquitous, along with 'fishhead'. Perhaps one of the two was the boss, and the other possibly a valuable right-hand man. Either way, they were, at the very least, to his reasoning, reasonably high up.

Eventually Alex decided to create a persona himself, and join in on the conversations. Hopefully, if he could play his cards right, he would be able to figure out who had tried – and was still trying – to kill him.

After some consideration, he came up with the perfect nom de plume. Who better than Shakespeare's tragic hero?

_McBeth: what u talking about? /interested_

A moment went by.

_icy: wtf who r u anyway?_

Delighted, he replied.

_McBeth: new to omega. not new to underworld tho :)_

…

_The user icy has blocked you from this thread._

Alex frowned. What had he done wrong? Was the smiley face too much? He'd thought he was smart, treating them like normal everyday people who enjoyed the occasional happy face, but maybe the clichés were right. Perhaps evil masterminds _weren't_ like normal people.

Just as he was about to create another nom de plume to continue his sleuthing, a pop-up informed him of a new message. He opened his account's inbox. The message was from fishhead.

_Prove your worth. We'll be in contact. ;)_

_-fishhead_

Alex crowed in triumph, reaching for the 'reply' button. Maybe criminal masterminds _were_ like normal people after all. However, as if predicting his next move, the phone rang. Without thinking, he picked it up.

"Hello?"

There was silence.

"Alex Rider," rasped a voice, deep and almost unintelligible.

Alex froze. How had they found him? "How do you know my name?" he responded nervously.

Silence greeted him. A muffled voice, not quite as deep but even more unintelligible, asked, "Did he say— Is it… _him_? icy?"

Cursing mentally, he kicked himself. Now they knew it was Alex Rider on the phone. It was more likely that it was just fishhead, thinking he was talking to 'McBeth'. Considering whom Alex was up against, it was probably child's play to trace an internet connection to a phone.

Then again, why had they said 'Alex Rider' if they had wanted McBeth?

He stopped. The kid they were talking about. It was him. That's why they'd said his name; to introduce the name to 'McBeth'. The evil mastermind behind fishhead was after him. He'd found them, and only on the second try. But who was fishhead?

As he tried not to choke or swear into the phone, the deep voice came again, with a calm and confident promise.

"Greenland, hmm? We _will_ find you, Alex Rider."

_Beep, beep, beep, beep, bee– _

Alex slammed down the phone.

He had to leave. Immediately.

xxx

Before he left, however, Alex had a few things to do: (1) Find a better bag than his manbag and some more clothes, and (2) leave a message for Greenland's next visitor from MI6. These things were important.

The first task was easy; without much looking, Alex found a Samsonite and some clothes in the wardrobe of the bedroom. It was lucky that he was tall for his age, and that MI6 obviously had some smaller-than-average agents. Or he was taking girls' clothes. He firmly pushed the thought out of his mind. If only he'd taken a different bag from his flat.

As Alex was rummaging through the clothing, trying to pick the most flattering out of the ones that fitted, he came across a bundle wrapped in a polar fleece blanket. Upon unwrapping it, he found to his great chagrin, a laptop identical to the one in the other room. Somehow he'd missed it, thinking it was just more clothes, when he'd emptied the wardrobe earlier.

He switched it on and clicked the account called 'Circus'.

And that was it. He was in. No password, no flashing lights, no annoying quest.

It was only his want for a computer to bring with him that stayed Alex's urge to throw it against the wall.

He'd take it with him – it wasn't as if there wasn't another laptop for the next occupant to use. Of course, if he was to take this laptop, it had to be secure. He set it to require a few fingerprints from his left hand, in a specific order: index, middle, ring, middle. His pinky and thumb fingers wasn't important enough to warrant this important task, and the sequence seemed to somehow resonate in his soul.

And with that done, he wondered what to do for the other computer's code. It was demanding to be reset and there were so many choices to frustrate the next occupant of the safe house, just as he had been frustrated…

Alex looked around. What was there? A fireplace with a broken clock on the mantle, the kitchen with well-stocked cupboards, the bedroom... After a little deliberation, it came to him.

With hurried movements, Alex grabbed a pen and notepaper from the coffee table in front of the fireplace. Ripping off the first sheet of paper, he wrote.

_The game is afoot! Look for a book in a nook where you cook._

This first note was placed on the keyboard of the laptop, under the lid. That was easier than thinking of the fireplace. Alex's next note was placed in the oven. It wasn't integral to the quest, but it would be handy. It read:

_You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles._

Reaching into one of the cupboards to retrieve one of the few recipe books (apparently MI6 agents were more fond of 2-minute noodles than home-based cooking), Alex found the section devoted to trifles. With his pen, he circled letters and words from each of the trifle recipes, eventually forming the message:

_I cannot make bricks without clay._

And then, in an Inuit-made clay pot resting innocently on the fireplace's mantle, a fourth note was placed.

_How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the what? – Five lowercase letters._

To complete his victim's quest, Alex changed the laptop's password to 'truth', and set it to reset after five minutes. Whoever had gone before, and allowed only three attempts ever, was cruel. He left Greenland with a sense of satisfaction only slightly marred by trepidation.

* * *

**AN: You may not have noticed my author's note in chapter one, regarding my competition:**

**The person before February 13, 2016 to review with the highest number of pop culture/TV/movie/etc references that I have made (e.g. **_**Staying Alive **_**by The Bee Gees, prologue, "You can tell by the way I use my walk") will win a one-shot from me, of their choice. The prize is limited to fandoms I know (if I can't write it, I'll ask you to choose something else) and the rules of FFNET (nothing explicit, please) :) I reserve the right to ask you to choose a different story.**

**In this chapter, there are several references :)**


	6. Chappie 4 - Brazil

**Chappie Four**

* * *

Alex's next port-of-call was Brazil, as Smithers (and Blunt) had suggested back at the start of this whole mess. He wondered again why he'd chosen to go to Greenland first. It hadn't really been a choice, however – Alex had simply lined up in the closest line, eager to get away. But this time, he made a conscious decision to head to Brazil. After all, what better place to relax after freezing his arse off in Greenland than somewhere renowned for its brilliant blue skies, warm weather and girls? However, Alex was a professional, of course. The girls weren't part of the appeal at all.

Besides, Alex had vaguely remembered Blunt mentioning Smithers' presence in this land of happiness. Why a man of his size would want to go there – where it was so sunny and probably very uncomfortable with the 'extra padding' – Alex didn't know and had a feeling he didn't want to.

Exiting the cool airport, he was greeted with a blast of hot, humid air, immediately sticking his shirt to his back and painting his cheeks red. As he walked over to the long line of taxis, he felt the beginnings of two sweat patches forming under each arm, and a trickle of sweat rolling down his temple. Already, his eyes were drooping, his steps lagging.

Not bothering to check for danger, the blond ex-spy hauled himself and his luggage into a waiting taxi and slumped as he realised that, despite his fervent yet sluggish prayers, the air-conditioner wasn't working. Just his luck.

As if things couldn't get any worse, an annoying whining sound filled his ears, as he realised he'd accidently entered an already-taken taxi. The elderly woman in the seat next to him was haranguing her husband in the front, who in turn was ranting at Alex through the rear-view mirror.

"Now see here, young man: we hailed this cab, fair and square. I don't know who you think you are, but –"

"Let me introduce myself, then. I am the son of Sir David Friend," interjected Alex with a charming smile that failed to reach his crud-filled eyes. "I think you'll find that my business here holds a higher priority than your _holiday. _I have an important meeting to attend and I mustn't be late, so I'm afraid I'll be securing this taxi for the time being. You can guarantee my father will thank you _personally_ upon my return. You can expect some compensation. He will find you."

The couple stared at him. Alex moved his right hand to the back of his jeans, which held a hard sunglasses case somewhat similar in size and shape to a gun, and increased the intensity of his stare.

"Y-yes…" the husband stammered, "quite… quite right. Come on love, let's leave Mr… Friend… to his, er, business…" Pulling his gobsmacked wife by her quivering jelly-like arm, he left Alex free to commandeer the cab as he so desired.

"Pousada Favelinha_, por favor_," was the command to the nonplussed driver, and they were off.

xxx

Back in freezing Greenland, Alex had found a note on the laptop detailing the locations of various preferred places of accommodation for agents in various countries. Alex had a list specific to Brazil, and would check each residence for Smithers. Luckily, the list wasn't long, so he would hopefully have enough time before sundown. If he'd taken a different bag from his flat, he could have used a list of contacts to phone Smithers, but that was in the past, now.

The first place on the list was the Pousada Favelinha_, _a guesthouse, located on the side of a mountain. It was a little way up this mountain that the taxi stopped and let Alex out. Leaving some money and his thanks, Alex surveyed the area, noting the various laneways that ran between each rundown house. Good escape routes, should any issues arise.

He hoisted his manbag onto his shoulder, grabbed the Samsonite, and headed up the stairs winding steeply between the tall trees.

A good double-century of stairs later, Alex was thinking that his football coach would love to come to Brazil with his football team. He'd make them go up ten steps, then down ten, up twenty, then down twenty. Up thirty, then down thirty, and so on and so forth, until they reached the top. No one could say he lacked dedication for his sport: dedication which would likely be expressed in the form of vitriolic words and violent gestures when Alex eventually turned up.

Mindful of his most recent injury to his stomach, Alex was content to take the stairs at a leisurely pace, pausing every now and then to stretch his muscles and survey the many hundreds of stairs still to go. Before he'd left the hospital, the doctor had warned him to 'take it easy and rest often'. Somehow, Alex didn't think the man would be very happy seeing him now. Ah well, never mind him. He had once read somewhere that exercise was good even when sick, and even if it wasn't true (especially for bullet wounds), it was a good excuse and made him feel slightly less guilty.

Finally, after another two hundred steps or so, Alex reached the top on wobbly legs, thankful for once for his relative lack of bags. He looked backwards at the thousands of stairs behind him, feeling as if a dozen males clad in white running shorts and T-shirts should appear around him, running in slow motion to the dramatic notes of a certain fiery chariot. In his heat-addled mind, the runners continued on their triumphant journey to… Was that—?

Alex's heart sank.

There, nestled in the bushes next to the staircase was a little tramcar attached to a wire leading… he traced the line back… back to the city. With joyful notes still ringing in the ears of his imagination, the white-wearing males jogged over to the tramcar and, their movements still slowed by dramatics, got in. They waved to him as they disappeared into the back of his mind.

Yep, the taxi driver, evil man that he was, had led him to the painful route. Stairway to Heaven? Hah! Was it revenge for hijacking the car at the airport? Plain sadism? Alex didn't know. He wished he hadn't left his thanks or the tip.

Magnanimously deciding to forgive and forget about the taxi driver, Alex approached reception, a simple wooden counter raised on the customer's side to hide staff computer screens. The lady who greeted him would once have been quite pretty, in an exotic way. The grin she gave him over the desk reminded him of a predatory cat.

Alex cleared his throat. "Is there anyone here by the name of Smithers? I missed an appointment with him, and..." He paused significantly.

The lady frowned, emphasising the wrinkles she had tried to cover up with foundation and strong, dark eye-shadow giving her eye sockets a bruised look. "Do you hold identification, Sir?"

Alex smiled winningly, presenting the passport he'd used to fly to Brazil.

Tilting her head slightly, the woman scrutinised his passport closely, before handing it back and typing something on the keyboard before her. Eyes roved back and forth while her brow furrowed further. Eventually, she looked up with an apologetic smile. "No one is here, many sorries."

Alex frowned. "How about a man, very overweight, white skin?"

This time the lady sat up and gave a short nod, setting her large, gaudy earrings – and therefore the lobes they were attached to – in motion. "Mr Smith!" But Alex's hopes were dashed almost immediately as she continued, "I am sorry, but he leaves yesterday."

"Did he give any indication as to where he was going?" Alex felt like a detective trying to catch a suspect. However, he didn't expect Smithers would have been so stupid as to leave an obvious trail.

As expected, the woman's answer was negative.

With a shrug, Alex left. Perhaps Smithers, taking a tip from the agents he worked with, was changing accommodation regularly and the Pousada Favelinha wasn't his only place of choice. It couldn't hurt to ask around.

xxx

The second place Alex chose to check for Smithers was Augusto's Paysandu Hotel, which held the temptation of complimentary breakfasts. Surely Smithers would not have wanted to miss that. The leather seats in the lobby gave the place an old-money sort of charm, marred only by the traffic noises from outside.

When Alex had made his way through the narrow, cramped streets, he had been met with the chaotic yet strangely organised Rio paradigm of driving, a game with winners and many, many losers. The cars alternatively accelerated and decelerated with screeching tires and almost constantly wailing horns.

In a sort of ecosystem, each inhabitant of Rio's streets had adapted to their environment in order to survive. Whatever car Alex saw was always either a Fiat or a Chevrolet. Doubtless the Fiat was useful for nipping in and out of tight spots like a rabbit, using its horn most profusely in an indignant squeal while dodging away from its larger counterpart.

The Chevrolet also made good use of its horn in a deep roar to announce its presence as it bullied its way through the hordes. Its drivers enjoyed creeping up and revving its engines suddenly, watching with triumphant smiles as its victims scuttled out of the way.

With these vehicles so accurately balancing each other out, it seemed quite reasonable that despite the congested, wild nature of the streets, there was remarkably little in the way of crashes or injured pedestrians, who had acquired skills similar to the Fiat yet decidedly more mouse-like. They meekly avoided the swerving cars and the drivers yelling furiously out their windows at victims only feet away.

But no one got out of their car. The hierarchy of the streets, with the pedestrians last, ensured that although the inhabitants often suffered road rage, in the next second their anger was forgotten, or aimed at another. Every incident was strictly business; no grudges were carried from one moment to the next. Even if the inhabitants of the streets had wanted to, it would have been virtually impossible and quite, quite pointless to remember the antagonist before they were swept away, never to be seen again.

Travelling to Augusto's Paysandu Hotel had taken almost double the time he'd estimated earlier and by the time he arrived, he was exhausted. Being a pedestrian in Rio meant negotiating the streets with catlike agility and seemingly nine lives – both of which Alex smugly told himself that he possessed… on a _normal_ day. But this was Brazil. It was 27˚C, he'd been shot in the stomach days earlier and he'd just climbed what seemed like a million steps.

Alex shut out the sounds and approached the desk. The receptionist, in clear contrast to the previous one, was young and rather good looking, though she seemed rather angry at Alex for no particular reason.

"I'd like to make an enquiry, please," he began, ignoring her glare. He rushed on without waiting for a response. "Is there a Mr Smithers staying here?"

The girl, still glaring, smiled, making her look slightly constipated. She looked at her screen, clicked a few times with her manicured hands, and returned her gaze to Alex.

"No, Sir."

"What about a man, very overweight, white skin?"

"No, Sir. Not that I remember."

As he turned away, Alex considered that she hadn't protected the privacy of Smithers at all. He could have been anyone – an assassin, tracking a target, a member of the mafia, looking for money...

After a small headshake and tut, Alex's search continued. And all that fuss on the streets for nothing. He looked at his watch. Perhaps searching through _all_ the hotels on the list he'd found would be rather pointless considering the time and effort spent getting to each one. Ah, well.

xxx

The first thing that greeted Alex upon entry in the Golden Tulip Continental was the smell of urine. Now, Alex was not weak of stomach, so a measly thing like that would certainly not put him off his quest. Already, he had braved the odours of raw sewage tempered by salt wafting from the bay, the acrid fumes from the traffic, the saccharine humidity and the overwhelming scent of green. He had suffered through the streets of Rio. This was nothing compared to the trauma outside.

This time, when Alex approached reception, the first thing he was told, without preamble, was: "No rooms!"

Alex smiled politely. "Thanks, but I would like to ask you a question."

The lady frowned up at him as if were a tax man. "No rooms!" she repeated slowly.

Alex widened his smile, resisting the urge to bite her head off literally and figuratively. Perhaps figuratively first. "Yes, I realise that, but is there a Mr Smithers here?"

The lady typed slowly, using only her index fingers. She frowned again at the result on the computer screen. "No." She looked up and her eyes narrowed. "No! Rooms!"

It didn't look as though he'd get any further, so Alex left.

xxx

The man typed on his computer rapidly, spoke into his headset, and continued to type. Alex waited patiently at the desk for one, two minutes. At least this place was clean and a welcome respite from Outside. It was even air-conditioned! Alex decided he could afford to spend a lot of time interrogating this receptionist. "Excuse me."

The man continued typing.

"Sir?"

Still nothing.

"Er, excuse me, I'd like to speak with you."

The man paused for a second, staring at the screen, only to begin tapping away at the keyboard again with renewed vigour.

Alex sighed. Perhaps another tactic would be more effective. In a commanding voice he shouted at the man as if he were the Sergeant. "Sir, may I have your attention, please!"

Like a deer in headlights, the man froze and looked up at Alex slowly. Seeing the unthreatening figure before him, the man forced a perfunctory smile and went straight back to the computer, pointing at the headset meaningfully before resuming pouring out words onto the keyboard.

Honestly, the man was infuriating. In the same commanding voice, Alex shouted, "Sir, I'm here to arrest someone on suspicion of… Well," he leaned in, lowering his voice, "can we talk somewhere else? I'd really appreciate your cooperation… if you know what I mean."

The man looked up with the same guilty expression. "You want… You wish… to talk?" he asked. "Somewhere... in private?"

Finally! Alex nodded solemnly. "In private," he confirmed.

The man swallowed, but looked pointedly at Alex. "Is there any particular reason I should come?"

"What?"

"Sir, you are annoying and stupid. Please stop wasting my time."

"What?" He'd been so eager to help before. What was the problem?

"Please go away, Sir," said the man, flapping a hand at him.

"There's a sign that says you're a receptionist," Alex scowled, indignant. "But you're not receptive at all."

The man looked at Alex with raised eyebrows. "There are many taxis outside, but with an empty wallet there are no taxis at all."

"…Oh." Alex coughed and slid over a Brazilian Real note, which the male receptionist accepted smugly, leading him to a small room with a desk and two chairs.

With another forced smile, he offered Alex one of the chairs and plonked himself down on the other. "What is it you wished to talk to me about, Sir? You are _polícia_, yes?"

"Well," Alex heaved a sigh as if to acknowledge the man's assumption, "I just want to ask you some questions."

"Of course, Sir."

"I assume you know everyone who is in this hotel, and who has ever stayed in this hotel?" Alex drawled, smiling conspiratorially at the man. A little flattery never hurt anyone. Plus, it was better than giving away more cash.

The man took a deep breath and looked slightly perturbed. "I see you already know I have a photographic memory. I remember all our customers. In fact, one time, Mr John Cleese Sir stayed in this very hotel," he boasted.

"Hmm," said Alex noncommittally. "So you would remember, for instance, if a man by the name of Smithers was ever in your hotel?"

"Oh, yes, but no. Such a man was never here. May I ask why it is you need him?"

Alex glared at the man, who cowered into his chair. "I shouldn't be telling you this, really. He's wanted in a major case we're working on," he lied. "So he may have gone under an alias."

The man perked up in excitement. "A major case? I am glad the Savoy Othon can be of help, senhor! You know, we have a complimentary buffet every morning if you wish to stay to work on this amazing case."

"Yes," muttered Alex. "Quite. He's quite a large man, you would remember a man his size."

The man thought for what seemed an age, but was only probably a minute. "No," he said eventually, "no man with big size."

Alex's disappointed look must have alarmed the man, for he piped up again.

"But you may stay here while you look for this man! We will serve you to the best of our abilities!"

The man continued to ejaculate praise for the hotel as Alex left the room.

xxx

Sofitel, despite all its glory, was no help either. Apparently, Smithers had left two days ago, presumably to go to Pousada Favelinha. Thus ended the trail of Smithers. He really would make a decent field agent. Or perhaps everyone who worked at MI6 was like that, no matter their role.

However, before he travelled back to the Pousada Favelinha, it was time for Alex to listen to his stomach. The street vendors beckoned with such welcoming grins that Alex felt as if he should join them and spend the rest of his life following them like some sort of parasite.

Gastronomy was not to be taken lightly, especially considering Alex's limited funds. Ignoring all else, he wandered up and down the street, contemplating each food and comparing them for both price and quality, though he was no expert considering this was his first time in Brazil.

A bikini-clad girl smiled at him, but he ignored her in favour of watching a prawn stew boil. Watching the bubbles push past the prawns to the surface was like watching baby turtles crawling on the sand and into the big wide ocean. He surreptitiously wiped away a small tear.

Eventually, after much bad poetry, Alex approached a bakery emitting tantalising scents, which promised eternal happiness upon entering and savouring the delights within.

A few minutes later, he held a bun filled with seasoned meat and vegetables. It was a metaphor for the Big Bang, he decided, and if he were to drop this specimen, no doubt there would be a small vegetable representing the Earth. Perhaps little bacteria would form on the surface. He really was quite the expert when it came to poetic metaphors.

When he had finished, the dough had dried Alex's mouth slightly, and he decided that he must buy a drink immediately.

_Caldo de cana, _sugar cane juice, satisfied his need perfectly, with its light herbal taste and immense sweetness tempered by a squeeze of limejuice like the juice of sugar cane and lime. Maybe he should bring some to Tom one day.

And then dessert. A woman had sprinkled flour onto a pan, and right before his eyes, with no additions, the powder had turned into a crepe! It was as if she had created an island by pouring sand onto the ocean surface, though the metaphor did the phenomenon no justice. Alex had to try one. Coconut and condensed milk was his choice of filling, and he thanked the woman profusely in what limited Portuguese he'd picked up.

With sticky fingers and a full stomach, Alex found his way to a tram station to return to Pousada Favelinha. Never again would he take the stairs.

xxx

**Disclaimer: I have not been to Brazil, so there may be mistakes in geography, and any comments on hotels or other places are fictional.**

***Just a quick note: koalas aren't bears.**

**Also, have you spotted any references yet? There were some very obvious ones last chapter :D**


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